


once upon a time

by nuznate



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuznate/pseuds/nuznate
Summary: When Erik had finally settled down in his house on the lake under the Palais Garnier, he felt content, though, he still dreamed about Nadir.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Nadir Khan, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	once upon a time

When he had finally settled down in his house on the lake under the Palais Garnier, he felt content with finally finding a place in which he could see himself living for the rest of his life. He dreamt of having a house once, a real house on the ground, but by being himself who had death and terror tagged along behind everywhere he went, eventually that dream died down; the sooner he accepted it the longer he could plan to have the best he could manage in this circumstances.  
  
  
Though he thought he was content, when he slept he still dreamed, but not so often like before; most of the dreams consisted of blood, gore, violence, and it was always on his hand; some of them were the actual memories he had from his life experiences of encountering abusive people, many of them were from the rosy hours of Mazanderan where he had made the little sultana laugh so many times, his participation there was not in great length of time, but the excessive amount of violence and death that had occurred was enough to cause a lifetime of nightmares; it made him jolt awake sweating, screaming and wishing he were dead.  
  
  
But sometimes he dreamed about _him_ ; his face was always so clear in this kind of dream, whether he was smiling or scoffing at him; his brows being furrowed by his trouble or being stretched high by his impression; those hands, strong and steady, stretching out for him, catching him when he fell, pushing him when he went in the wrong direction; and they were always on him, his eyes, beautiful dark green that turned a lighter shade of jade when being under the sunlight and turned yellowish-green when tinted with the lamplight.  
  
  
There was also another kind of dream about him, on the very rare nights, he dreamed about his lips, always so warm and tender when they were on him, whether they were on his forehead, his cheek, his neck or his lips; his hands always so gentle when caressing his hair, his face, his back or his body; his voice whispering sweet words in his ear making him feel grateful he was alive.  
  
  
And as if his life wasn't cruel enough, he dreamed about the last moment between them, of him telling him to go, of him refusing to come, of him forcing out his promise, of him saying goodbye, and of himself being the reason they had to part ways; so clear the details as if it were yesterday.  
  
  
Every time when he dreamed about him, he woke up crying, missing him tremendously, longing with every bone in his body to meet him again, to be able to see his face, hear his voice, feel his warm body against him; crutching to the pain in his chest, he felt as if there was a void inside him where his heart should have been.  
  
  
But not like those brutally murderous dreams that constantly made him want to die, dreams of _him_ made him wish he would live long enough until there came the time when he got to reunite with him again.  
  
  
(Eventually, that hope would die down in the future when he lived his solitary life underground for many years; for someone who loathed humanity as a rule, had been constantly distanced himself from society, the complete social deprivation would still take its toll on him. He had never hidden away from humankind completely like this and had never liked to be so utterly alone for so long.  
  
  
The thought of _him_ possibly being dead a long time ago as a punishment from helping him escape Persia would horrify him, guilt him out, and distinguish all small good deeds that still left in him until he would be nothing but a sack of bone waiting for his brother Death to take him away.)

  
But the memories of him would always linger in his mind; that once upon a time he had met a great man who had showed him love without even being asked, who had taught him how to love and how to accept love in return.  
  


Until, finally, he met him again.


End file.
